Chapter 38: Xavier

Chapter 38: Xavier

If there’s one thing I like talking about more than football, it’s falcons. And owls. Owls are my favorite.

I announce this to the table, telling the story of how I found an owl on the side of the lane, and how Philip and I researched how to care for it. "And what’s not to love? Have you ever seen an owl walk? It’s the best thing ever. Really. Google it. Also, most people think an owl can turn its head one-hundred and eighty degrees, but it’s actually more like one-hundred and thirty-five," I babble. Aiden is rapt with attention, and he and I talk for several minutes before I realize everyone is staring at me.

And not in the good, "oh wow, we’re in the presence of greatness" kind of way. Moreso in the, "what is this freak rambling on about” way.

"Right. Sorry. Apologies for rambling." Apparently, not everyone wants to know about the life cycle of owlets.

Ophelia lets out a small, strangled noise and then Owen bursts out laughing. A loud guffaw that seems out of place in this posh home. He’s laughing so hard that his face turns red. If I’m not mistaken, there are tears in his eyes.

Ophelia, on the other hand, is not laughing. She’s pale. Whiter than the dinner plate pale. I put my hand on hers and she pulls it back. Leaning in, I whisper, "What’s wrong?"

She shakes her head, lips pressed tightly together.

"I’m not sure where she found you, but this is the best thing I’ve ever heard." The brother keeps laughing. "Ophelia finally brings someone home and not only does he not even live in this country, but he’s into birds. My sister really does know how to pick ’em."

"I’m sure they’re just friends," the sister-in-law interjects.

I stiffen, my molars grinding. I glance over at Ophelia, whose eyes are now as wide as a barn owl’s. I look around the table. The younger couples are on their phones, not paying attention. Ophelia’s dad is still stuffing his gob. Her mother is tut-tutting.

Somehow, somewhere, this entire conversation has gone completely awry. It’s probably because people don’t expect someone like me to be passionate about something other than football. And for a long time, I think I too forgot that there’s more to life than kicking a ball around a field.

Ophelia pushes back from the table, dropping her napkin over her plate as she stands. She dashes out of the dining room, I imagine upstairs.

"Well, I don’t quite know what is going on," I mumble, not sure what to do with myself. "I need to go. Excuse me." I stand up as well and head upstairs to find Ophelia.

She’s sitting on the bathroom floor, knees to chest, back to the bathtub. Her hair is again in plaits, cascading over her shoulders as her forehead rests on her knees, and she looks young and sweet.

And sad.

Like someone broke her favorite doll.

That someone is me, but I don’t know how or why. And it occurs to me that the mere thought of causing Ophelia pain causes me as much distress as my football career ending.

As if Ophelia means as much to me as football does.

I slide down next to her, wrapping my arms around my knees. There’s a lot more of me than of her, and I don’t compact as well. "I feel as if I should be apologizing, but I don’t know what for."

Her head shakes back and forth.

I wait a moment before continuing. "No, really. I don’t know what I said or did, but I’m sorry. I thought I used the correct fork."

"I don’t know you at all." Her voice is so hushed I can barely hear it.

I’m in a stranger’s house, eating dinner with people whose names I can’t even remember. I’m not even sure what state I’m in. "True. We didn’t get the time we thought we would, I guess."

Ophelia sniffs and finally looks at me. "We … I don’t think we should have slept together. It was a mistake."

Ouch.

Rather than let her know her words hurt, I shrug it off like I would if I were in the middle of a game and just received a cleat to the shin. "Probably not. Obviously, this whole thing was quite foolish."

"Quite," she murmurs quietly.

Now it’s my turn to bury my head in my hands. "This whole thing has gone off the rails. Tony …" The mere mention of his name fills me with rage. "If I ever see that wanker again …" I clench my fists. I’m not a violent man, but thoughts of pummeling him into the ground are soothing.

"Xavier, this is serious. Birds? Like actual birds? With feathers and everything?"

Birds? That’s what she’s gone bonkers over? I must be misunderstanding her. It must be a language barrier or something akin to a cultural divide. "Um, right. We run a rescue operation for birds of prey. We do get mostly owls and hawks, but we’ve had the occasional falcon, and even a golden eagle once. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it."

Ophelia sits up ramrod straight. "No, no you have not. I would have remembered such an atrocity. Birds are … evil and I’m confident one will kill me someday."

This explains why she chased that pigeon. "Ah, you have ornithophobia."

"It’s not only a fear. It’s a true hatred. Every time one is near me, I just know it’s out to get me."

While I’ve certainly encountered people with this fear before, I’ve never seen it to quite this extent. After a few moments of silence, I say, "Perhaps it’s a good thing that this isn’t a real marriage. Now you won’t have to deal with my family and their love of birds."

She nods silently.

I continue. "Seriously though, virtually every bit of decor in the house is some form of bird or another. It’s all people seem to give my parents as gifts. There are bird pictures and bird pillows and bird blankets. Even the bin and the bog roll holder are birds. The whole thing is like one giant Alfred Hitchcock movie set."

"That sounds terrible. Perhaps I can get a divorce on those grounds alone. By the way, we can’t officially dissolve our marriage in Massachusetts for one year."

Right. It’s not surprising Ophelia looked into it. The whole point of this charade was to help me get traded. That seems like such a fantasy now, it might as well have some Fantastic Beasts in it. "I’m sure we’ll figure it out. We have time. Frankly, it’s the only thing I have."

Ophelia looks at me. "Birds? You really love birds?"

I laugh. "I do. I don’t suppose you want to hear how at times you remind me of a kestrel, flapping and hovering, moving yet still all at the same time."

She shudders. "I know you mean that as a compliment, but please don’t ever say that out loud to me again."

"I won’t. I suppose you don’t want to be called ’chickadee’ either?"

Ophelia tips her head so it’s leaning on my shoulder. "Not really." She lets out a sigh. "What are you going to do now?"

I’d shrug, but I don’t want to disrupt her or break our contact. I like it when she touches me, even though I’ve no right to. "Not sure. I’m basically homeless, so I’ll kick about for a bit, I suppose."

"You’re not homeless homeless. You do have our apartment. Why don’t you move in there? You know you’re not going back to Baltimore, so you might as well be here. I mean, in Boston. Then, maybe if you wanted to hang out every now and again, we could. As long as you don’t talk about birds, that is."

"It would be nice to have a friend. My best mate, Alastair, went back home."

There’s silence, as neither of us knows what to say next. I’m absolutely pitiful.

Finally, she says, "I didn’t text you today. What about ’When a Man Loves a Woman’ by Percy Sledge? That’s a good love song."

I shake my head. "Oh darling, he berates himself and totally gives everything for someone who doesn’t love him back."

She laughs. "I don’t think I’m ever going to find a song for us. Not one that’s really about love. Maybe it’s a sign because we’re not really anything. Or perhaps I don’t know what it is." Her voice drops low and thick.

Her words tug at my heart. I want to tell her I’ll show her, but it seems too soon. Or too out of place. Or too … something. Instead, I say, "And if you even say, ’I Will Always Love You’ by Whitney Houston, I’m going to disown you right now."

This time, Ophelia laughs, and it’s music to my ears. "Even I know that’s about loving someone who’s better off without you and you can’t be together." Ophelia straightens before standing up. She extends a hand down to me and pulls me to my feet. "We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to get you a new agent, and make this trade happen, come hell or high water. Now, let’s go talk to Owen. He’s got to have some lawyer-y contacts who can help. Somehow."

I smile down at her, still holding her hands in mine. "You’re right. It may not be ideal, but some of the best things in life don’t start as you planned them to be. So maybe I don’t get traded until March. If I put my work in and show Janssen I’m worth it, then perhaps it’ll work out."

"That’s the spirit."

I nod, feeling a surge of energy I haven’t felt in a while. "All I need to do is train my arse off and keep my nose out of trouble."

"The Buzzards would be fools not to put you on their roster." Ophelia shudders. "Buzzards. More birds. I’m never going to escape them with you, am I?"